Tension
by Ta Paixao
Summary: Tension: Take up all slack and hold on—a possible fall is anticipated. After three years of drifting alone, Edward returns to Upstate New York to see about a girl, a promise to his brother. He should have stayed hidden. EPOV. Adult content.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** I had to get this out of my head. It's a short introduction to the story.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Gothics**

**Tension: Take up all of the slack and hold on—a possible fall is anticipated or the rappeller is out of control.**

EPOV

My foot slips its hold and my muscles brace. In a split second, adrenaline rushes. Every nerve is alert, thrumming. It is that sensation right before impact. Alertness slams into you so hard you're almost surprised to realize you haven't hit the bottom yet. Like your brain knows the inevitable outcome and prepares for the worst. As if preparation can save you now. The mind focuses through the panic. Vision sharpens. Heart races.

These are the moments I live for. I succeed or fail by the tips of my fingers. 4,000 feet above the ground, I depend on no one. If I die here, only I carry the blame. To the ground I hold my fate in my own hands.

But not today. There is a little fight left in these muscles. My foot finds purchase and I grunt, pulling myself up and over the final hurdle. Reaching the summit, I catch my breath and turn to throw my legs over the edge that nearly bested me. I stare down into the valley, surveying the distance I have overcome.

"Not today, Sam Simon," I say to the phantom below.

My brother used to talk about Old Willy Wise. A manufactured name if I ever heard one. He was a legend among climbers—as in a load pretty bullshit—who famously surmounted 49 peaks in 49 days. He used no rope, no gear. Just his bare hands to conquer sheer cliffs and craggy passes. His best friend and climbing companion was a man whose name no one recalled. Always second to reach the top, he was forever overshadowed by the charismatic Willy.

Until the 50th peak on the 50th day. The man without a name was tired of watching the world pass below him from under Willy's backside. Just once he wanted to scale the peak with a clear view and carve his identity at the top. So when Willy's foot slipped its hold, the man with no name crossed out from under his friend and watched silently as Old Willy Wise plummeted to the base of the mountain.

Every dirtbag shop owner—an affectionate name for a climbing retailer—claims Willy's 50th peak is the one in his or her territory. The story is so old that, even if it was true, it's impossible to say for certain which summit claimed his life.

When the the man reached the top, he left his name chalked proudly on a rock. To this day, climbers all over the country snap photos of rocks that read, "Sam Simon." Because as the story goes, a climber only reaches the top because Sam allows it. He's still out there, somewhere, proliferating his legend. The day you forget who he is, when you start to buy into your own myth such as Old Willy Wise, he rips you down.

A climber—the living ones, at least—is equal parts adventurous and cautious, confident and humble. You have to be just a little insane to claw your way up a rock face and dare gravity to yank you back to the ground where you belong.

Scanning the scenery that stretches out before me under the midday sun, I think you have to be just a little crazy to properly appreciate how wild, massive, and completely untamable the world really is.

I miss my brother the most when I reach the top. I'll sit here for hours, waiting, expecting him to come up over the ledge with a smartass remark. He talks to me up here. It's the only time I still feel him.

I can't linger too long, though. You never want to race the sunset and I still have a long drive ahead of me.

Three years it's taken me to get to this point. After Anthony died, I effectively went off the grid. When your parents won't look you in the eyes and you can't quite remember why, the uncertainty of the road looks pretty damn appealing. Strangers sub in for family, anonymity is comforting. If you're gone long enough, you almost forget your own name.

From the Gothics south of Lake Placid, I'll head farther south to Lake George. I have to see about a girl.

End note: So, what do you think so far? Want to know more?


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** For the locals who know Lake George, I am aware that the cemetery referred to in this chapter is a historical site and no longer available for burial. I'm just taking a bit of creative license. Go with it.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Massacre**

**I'll probably still end up in a box.**

Fort William Henry once served as a British fortification on the southern tip of Lake George. In 1757, it was the site of a six-day siege led by Marquis de Montcalm, the result of which serves as the setting James Fenimore Cooper's novel _The Last of the Mohicans_.

Vastly out-numbered and with no relief in sight, the British forces surrendered. The French promised full military honors of war and safe escort as the opposing soldiers withdrew to Fort Edward, about thirteen miles south along the Hudson River. In exchange, the British agreed to release French prisoners. Such was the civilized manner of European war.

But the French could not so easily control their Mohican allies. Following the surrender, the fort was invaded and pillaged by the Mohawk tribe. Wounded were slaughtered and scalped. Unarmed prisoners were chased and struck down. History calls the event a massacre. Women and children perished among the soldiers. The vicious assault was so great, the bloodlust of the natives so immense, that the French simply gave up trying to protect the British forces. Historical accounts and academic research vary widely on the number killed—anywhere from 200 to 1,500.

I consider this story as I drive along the 9 with Mohican Street to my right and the Fort William Henry Hotel & Conference Center on the left. Situated between the resort and golf course on the shore of Lake George, the re-built and restored fort serves as a museum and tourist attraction. There is a Pancake House across the street.

My destination is two blocks east. Tucked into the trees beside a renovated Catholic church that had just begun its improvement project the last time I'd stepped foot in this town is a cemetery. I have an appointment with Caitlyn Mitchell, deceased.

Walking past the shrubs that line the path into the grounds, I snatch a flower from its sisters. Just one. No need to be greedy. It's not as if the dead can smell them. The living present dying flora to headstones as a signal to the other mourners that the empty body that rests in the wooden box below our feet is loved, missed. The flowers wilt and blow away. Scanning the other graves, I estimate by the level of decay just how long it's been since anyone remembered Robert Ford or Meredith Comstock.

The flowers die and return to the earth. Our bodies rot in caskets. Useless. Death is a festival for the living. The pomp and circumstance appeases the witnesses while returning nothing productive. I'd rather decompose at the base of a mountain where the trails are so impassible that no one could retrieve my body before the animals picked apart my carcass the insects invade. Short of that, cremate me and be done with it. I won't know the difference.

I'll probably still end up in a box.

Or dumped in the Hudson with a bullet to the back of the head.

I wander through the cemetery for a while—partly searching and somewhat avoiding—until I come upon her grave:

Caitlyn Mitchell

1986-2010

Beloved daughter and friend

I stare the grey slab of stone with black engraved letters and two doves in the upper corners. I lay the white flower on the stone and have nothing to say. I didn't know her, not really. She was tall, blonde, had nice legs and great ass. My brother loved her from the moment she slid a Guinness over the bar. He loved her face, her tits, and aimed to get to loving his dick in her as soon as possible. They made it twenty minutes after last call. While I drove back up to the cabin near Lake Luzerne, my brother nailed his soul mate in the backseat of my car.

That summer ended in the best two weeks of his life. The last two weeks of both their lives.

I don't know why I came. It's not like Anthony can see me. She sure as fuck doesn't know I'm here. What's the difference? I made a promise that took three years to deliver on, but no one is here to collect. Somewhere in the more delusional crevices of my mind, I guess the tiny hope that I'd feel something propelled me to suck it up and make the trip. Like standing over this grave might bring on a sense of closure, completion. Not even close.

I feel nothing; nothing except anger, guilt, frustration, and the ever-present disappointment that comes with searching my memory and coming up empty once more.

This is fucking pointless.

Minutes after arriving, I'm back in my car. Everything I own fits into two duffle bags that occupy the backseat. Six weeks ago I made the decision to venture east. Step one was to acquire transportation. I could have taken a bus, but I loathed the idea of spending days crammed into a tin can with thirty smelly, sweaty strangers. A plane would have dumped me off too soon. I needed the time spent covering the distance to work up the nerve to see the plan through.

In Albuquerque I spent four days taking up space on a barstool waiting for a promising opportunity. I was about to give up and move on when a high-functioning alcoholic three stools down proceeded to talk my ear off about a regular Texas hold'em game from which he'd walked away with an Indian Chief Classic motorcycle with a jack-high straight on the river. I spent the next two nights chatting the guy up until I won an invite.

I'm no gambler, per se. I can't count cards and I have never been graced with unusual luck. What I do have are steady nerves and the willingness to raise on the double blind when I'm holding nothing better than a pair of eights, daring the ace-high flush to call my bluff.

After four hours, I walked away with a mint Shelby Mustang. Her previous owner wasn't inclined to part with his ride—I have no tolerance or pity for sniveling bastards who bet more than they are prepared to lose—but after three broken fingers and a bloody nose, he acquiesced to the barrel of my 45-caliber Sig.

In Oklahoma I took $49,500 for the car, $5,000 of which I spent on a used diesel VW. I had a reliable ride, good gas mileage, and more than enough money to get me through the year. What I didn't have was an excuse to stay put. So east I went.

As it happens in the summer, storm clouds roll in quickly over the lake. Thunder shakes the windows. Sporadic drops hit the windshield. That is as good a reason as any to call it a day. My symbolic mission accomplished and nothing to show for it but a couple thousand miles on the odometer, I put the car in gear and pull back on the 9 heading for the middle of nowhere.

Setting course south for Berry Pond Preserve is muscle memory. Coming down from the Gothics, I told myself I'd pull into a motel, get drunk, sleep it off, and skip town with a hangover at sunrise. Instead of turning off into any number of waiting beds, I keep on following the well-worn path.

My knee aches the closer I get to my destination. I reason that the storm is the cause, but I know better. It's the landmarks passing as I drive, each one counting down like mile markers to a set of black skid marks on the pavement and a section of the thick forest carved out by a high-speed collision and the resulting fire. In the left lane, a black Subaru hatchback races past me. I almost drift into the next lane while I watch it fly over a hill. The rear bumper is covered in stickers that fit together like a collage halfway up the rear windshield. I remember each one.

I also know the illusion isn't real. I know my brother isn't sitting in the passenger seat of that vehicle with his feet hanging out of the open window. And he isn't beside me right now with a cocky grin, goading me to chase the carrot.

At the last convenience store for six miles in any direction, I stop off to fill the tank and collect some provisions for the night—beer, bread, cheese, milk and cereal for the morning. Only enough for one day. No more.

Since coming home drunk after skipping Anthony's funeral, I've never asked my parents for anything. I packed up what I could carry into two duffle bags and left in the middle of the night without so much as a note.

As I pull down the hidden driveway nestled among the forest to the tiny compound of three cabins, I tell myself that it doesn't count if they don't know I'm here. I park the car around the back of the farthest of the three buildings just in case someone notices the vehicle and decides to check in on the new renters.

When we were kids, my parents used to rent the front house from this batshit-crazy lady in her seventies. Eccentric people gave her sideways looks. Vicky fancied herself some kind of artist and poet. What Anthony and I dubbed the Crazy Artist-Lady House was covered in the sorts of child-like crafts you couldn't decipher from preschoolers or mental patients: macaroni art covered in watercolor paints, yarn webs, nonsensical haikus glued to the walls with alphabet magnets, and elaborate human structures built of green army men and other miniatures. It was cool as hell.

My parents were appalled the first time we stepped through the door—the photos they'd seen were clearly taken about many years prior—but caved when Anthony and I deemed it "rad."

We rented the place every summer for ten years until Vicky was struck by lightning while paddling her canoe on Lake Luzerne. Her daughter sold my parents the property. After that, they had two smaller cabins built. Each sat only a dozen yards apart. The original structure was also the largest—about 1,000 square feet. The other two were no more than 750 feet with two bedrooms and two baths. My brother and I took up residence in the back house while the third was occasionally offered to renters or family friends.

I barely glance at my surroundings getting out of the car. Still early evening, it is already dark under the thick covering of trees. Taped inside the bird feeder that hangs from a branch by the picnic table in the center of the cabins arranged in a triangle, I find the spare key and let myself inside. I take a piss, pop open a beer, crash on the couch, and spend the night telling Anthony about my day until I pass out among an empty case of Saranac Light.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** I'm thrilled at the response to this story so far. Thank you for giving this one a try.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Intersection**

**...drowning is shitty way to die**

I know the precise moment my buzz wears off. I find myself on the ground, covered in dirt and blood. I'm holding Anthony in my arms, telling him to fight just a little longer. The flames lick closer. I grab my brother under his arms and drag us both as far as I can manage, which is when I realize my knee is dislocated. I'm sliding in the mud, battling for every inch of distance.

The front end of my car is unrecognizable, wrapped around a tree. Fire erupts from the other vehicle and climbs the broken pine. The night is so dark, the world almost invisible. And the conflagration; that's what I remember. With my brother bleeding in my arms, my eyes are fascinated by the flames.

I wake up on the floor between the couch and coffee table. I'm sweating and naked, though I can't remember getting undressed. The room is dark. I make out a few pieces of the scenery that remind me where I am, and it's easy to pretend I'm still dreaming.

Before our first summer upstate, I'd never seen such opaque blackness. We grew up in Hell's Kitchen, where even the basements have an ambient glow. The first night here, Anthony and I snuck out late and trudged a quarter mile down the empty road and another 100 yards along the narrow path through the woods to the lake. Sitting in the sand, we doused our flashlights and were plunged into a void. I couldn't see my own nose. Above us, the stars were brighter and more plentiful than I knew possible. It was so quiet.

"I'm getting in," my brother announced.

"I'll race you to the other side," I said while stripping out of my clothes.

"You can't even see the shore," Anthony answered. "If you don't swim in a straight line, you'll end up going in circles until you drown."

"You'll pull me out." I slid my feet through the sand until I felt the water touch my toes.

"Not if I can't see you," he replied from somewhere behind me.

"Just follow my voice." I waded into the water. Even in the summer it was damn cold. "You coming or what?"

"Right beside you."

Cold steel alloy digs into my back. Grabbing my Sig, I move to my stomach and force myself to stand. My foot rolls on a empty beer bottle and my knee catches the edge of the coffee table.

"Motherfucker." I kick the damn thing for good measure then hobble toward the bathroom.

Leaning on my left leg, I have to stand at a funny angle to take a piss. My right knee is a fickle fuck and acts up occasionally since the crash. When the weather changes. When I throw myself off the couch or out of bed. Like the moment of impact reaches forward in time to smack me again. The dream is always the same, but never giving me the memory I want.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair's too long and I haven't shaved in a week. I'm almost unrecognizable.

Stepping foot within the boundaries of New York was pushing my luck. Really, if I had more sense, I would have steered clear of anywhere east of the Mississippi. But then people were always telling me Anthony was the smart one. That only proved they didn't really know him.

Just after 5:00 in the morning, the sun won't rise for another hour. I take advantage of this fact and throw on a pair of shorts and shoes. I don't take a flashlight, just my gun tucked into my waistband. By the third year, Anthony and I could navigate the six square miles surrounding the cabin in pitch-black by memory.

Stepping around the empty flower bed outside the door of the back cabin, I veer slightly to the left, enough to avoid the picnic table. From there I scrape my shoes down fifteen yards of dirt and gravel until my rubber soles meet flat pavement. My left foot traces the side of the road while I keep to the grassy shoulder.

I know the head of the trail that leads to the lake when my fingers graze the aluminum post that holds up the faded sign guiding visitors to Lake Luzerne. Along the narrow path, I hold out my palm to skim the branches that line the edge. When my shoes sink into the sand I finally make out the water ahead. Thirty steps forward I kick off my shoes, pull off my shorts, and drop my pistol on the pile.

The water is just as cold as I remember. Muscles clench as I walk in up to my waist and dive forward. The lake is small, only about 100 meters across at its widest distance. I swim the first lap underwater in one breath. From there I breaststroke through laps.

I swim until my shoulders burn and my arms ache, and then I turn around and go again. I push through the ache in my knee. I ignore my struggling lungs and Anthony's voice in the back of my head telling me to stop. When I tilt my head to the side and don't quite get my lips above the surface to suck in a breath, I realize I'm sinking.

That's always been my problem. Anthony and I weren't so different. Our parents loved him and tolerated me. He was the good son. Though he was older by two years, I somehow got the reputation as the bad influence. That's a fucking riot and indicative of the rampant hypocrisy in our family. Truth is, Anthony was always the instigator; I just lack the good sense or care to know when enough is enough. Limits don't exist I'm my world.

But I'm not a quitter. And drowning is shitty way to die. I find the will, paddling through the fatigue until my feet skim bottom and I crawl up the sand.

With the sun just making its arrival through the trees, I lie naked on my back, my chest heaving toward the sky. A single bird launches from a branch high above, kicking up leaves in its wake with fluttering wings.

Anthony and I were inseparable. In his absence, in the gaping hole my brother left in my life, I prefer to fill it with solitude.

My eyes grow heavy. Time to get up and get dressed or risk indecent exposure to the early risers.

On the walk back to the compound, my head is clear and the rising sun leaves no error in my vision. So I come to a dead halt and stare dumbfounded down the two-lane road as a black Subaru hatchback flies by around the curve. Twenty-two bumper stickers I can recite by memory and point out blindfolded tease me for seconds before they disappear.

Impossible.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

**Chapter 4: No Deal**

**Fuck her, and get the hell out of Dodge. Good plan.**

Everything is the same. Faded paint on the cracked wood siding, fallen leaves piled up on the roofs, holes in the porch screen. Scavenged rocks stacked on top one another surround flowerbeds and mark the paths to each of the three cabins. The picnic table sitting off center between the buildings is covered in pine needles and splattered in bird shit.

This place is a dump. That's always been a theme in our family, living below our means in Hell's Kitchen when we could have afforded a better neighborhood of Manhattan. Making a show of yourself, flaunting your wealth, is a quick way to draw the wrong sort of attention. There's a structure to these things, an order and hierarchy. When you forget where you come from and to whom you owe your success, there's someone waiting to remind you the hard way.

The car is unmistakable, and it shouldn't be here.

Neither should anyone else.

My eyes trace the twenty-two bumper stickers covering the rear end of the black 2007 Subaru Impreza hatchback. Each one speaks to a stop along the way on road trips Anthony and I shared, the mountains we conquered together, and the scars and women we picked up along the way.

I pull my Sig from my waistband and clear the safety.

This is all wrong.

Alert now, I hear muffled noise from the main house to the right. Through the dirty porch screen I see the shabby yellow curtains are drawn on all four front windows. Eyes scanning, I quietly ascend the three steps and pull open the metal porch door. It creaks and whines, alerting the whole damn town that I'm here. The noise inside continues: running water, metal on metal, and maybe a voice under it all.

I cock the gun and point it at the floor in front of me. Taking one last check of my back, I grab the front door handle. It's ripped from my hand. In it's place stands a slim brunette dripping on the threshold with a blue towel wrapped around her body.

Her chin lifts as she scans me from the chest up. We stare at each other. Her eyes are dark, giving away nothing. Light freckles cover a slight nose against pale skin. My attention slides down to her lips when her teeth tug on the bottom one and it turns a darker shade of pink. My forefinger slides to the trigger.

"You'll do." She grabs my left hand and tugs me through the door.

Her bare feet smack against the hardwood in an awkward jog, sliding on the puddles dripping down her legs. I let her drag me along, taking note of the cluttered interior I know so well along the way until she shoves me at the master bathroom with an inch of water coating the tile. The sink faucet is spraying wildly against the mirror and over the counter.

"I turned it on to brush my teeth after a shower and it just popped off," she says over the noise, picking the broken knob off the counter and slapping it in my hand. "Help?"

I look down at her beside me. All indifference in her expression has been replaced with large, pleading eyes like black coffee and arched, desperate eyebrows.

"Wrap a towel around the faucet and lay as many as you can find on the floor. I'll get a wrench and turn off the water."

She tiptoes through the bathroom to the linen closet and pulls out two tall stacks of towels. Stepping away, I engage the safety on my Sig and head toward the kitchen. Under the sink there is the shutoff valve for the water to the rest of the house. The sound of violent spray ceases.

From the cabinet I pull out a wrench. While she is occupied, I take the opportunity to quickly check the other two bedrooms. Empty. There are signs she's been here for quite some time. The refrigerator is stocked with food. Dishes sit in the drying rack. There are new books on the coffee table. In the laundry room I see three folded stacks of sheets and pillowcases. Neatly folded clothes sit on top of the dryer—all female. I find no indication of a man's presence recently nor does it appear she has other company.

I guess her to be about 24 or 25, right about my age. So why does a girl that age rent out a place alone and so far from any point of interest? More importantly, how did she get my car?

Returning to the bathroom I find her on all fours, ass in the air. Still wrapped only in a towel and her long hair draped over her shoulder, the slender mystery sops up water from along the baseboards. The sight gets a little nod of approval from my dick. Settle down, junior.

She stands and drops the soggy towel with the pile in the bathtub. "Thanks," she says. "Can I help or should I just get out of your way?"

"I can handle it." I move to the sink and start taking apart the faucet. In the mirror, our eyes meet. She's seen the pistol tucked into my shorts, even if she did miss it at the front door. Unlikely. And yet she still let me in. "If I were here to rape or rob you, I wouldn't give a fuck about your sink."

"Good point." She stands there another moment.

"I heard noise from outside and thought maybe…" I let her come up with the rest. It's plausible and explains away my reason for arriving at her door with a loaded gun.

"Right." She slips past me into the bedroom.

Taking apart the faucet, I quickly find the problem. Well, the problem is this house was built in the '60s and shit's always falling apart. In this particular case, the washers are corroded and the ball assembly cracked, effectively rendering the valve useless. I wipe down the counter and collect the bits I need.

Turning toward the bedroom, I see her drop the towel from around her body. She stands in the dark room surrounded by the dim glow of the morning sun that filters through the yellow curtains. Her hair falls down her back and my eyes follow the line of her spine to a round, tight ass. Another appreciative twitch from my cock.

"Up here, mister." She looks at me over her shoulder, smirking when I meet her eyes. "Been a while since you've seen a woman naked?" No. From the bed she takes a pair of shorts and slides them on. "You didn't just get out prison, did you?" A tight, white cotton T-shirt is next. No bra. And I'm waiting for her to turn around.

"No," I answer from the bathroom doorway. "Never been in prison. I've been arrested a couple times, but prison is another matter."

She turns, pert tits hugged inside the fabric and sharp nipples pointed right at me. "Arrested? For what?"

"Well, the first time was a bar fight. The second one was for missing my court date for the former."

She rubs the towel through her hair, wringing out the dampness. "You were a fugitive of the law, huh?"

"There were extenuating circumstances." It's all true, if only partly so.

"Oh yeah? Do tell." The towel is discarded to the bed. She stands confident and expectant across the room. No fidgeting. No wandering eyes.

"I was 2,000 feet in the air, half way up a mountain with a broken foot. I'd say that counts as extenuating."

"You skipped court to go climbing? I'd say your priorities are screwed up."

I smile, remembering the arduous time I had getting down off that mountain and Anthony giving me shit the whole way. "It was the first break in three days of solid cloud cover. I had to go. It was imperative."

"Right."

I take a step forward and lean back against the bedroom wall. "You're the one who let a strange man into your house." My house. My parents' house. Whatever. "Wearing a towel, no less. What does that say about your priorities, I wonder?"

She tilts her head to the side, sliding her eyes over me. I've easily got 100 pounds and six inches on her. "Are you a strange man?"

"Some would say so," I answer. She shifts her weight and my attention is drawn to her athletic legs. Long, lean muscles in just the right proportions. "Depends on what you consider strange."

"What do you say?" she asks.

I lift my eyes slowly, appreciating the curve of her hips and swell of her breasts until I find her coffee eyes again. "I'd take strange over ordinary."

"Me too." She wraps her hair in a knot on the top of her head. I like the way the movement pushes her tits up. "Coffee?"

"Black."

xXx

I'm staring at my car through the porch screen when she steps out with two mugs and hands one to me. The porch is narrow, half the length of the front side of the house. Empty plant pots dot the floor and ledge. Two couches frame the front door, the opposite side furnished with an upholstered bench at the far end and two folding chairs. She takes a seat at the couch behind me.

"The Cullens didn't tell me there'd be another renter," she says.

"Last-minute decision."

I study the front end of the car. The paint on the bumper and hood doesn't match the rest of the body. It's black, but the weathering is uneven. I stare at it, trying damn hard not to get angry.

"Where'd you get that car?"

"From the junk yard in Lake George," she says. "Mine called it quits in Warrensburg. Sucked to part with Terry. My WRX," she clarifies. "Took a bus the rest of the way."

"You did some work on it." Last I'd seen it, my car was wrapped around a tree. No way it was running off the lot.

"It was the right price," she answers behind me. "The guy at the pull-and-pay yard helped me find the parts I needed and we spent a week putting her back together before I drove it out of there."

"That was friendly," I remark. I idly wonder is she actually turned a wrench in the whole process or if the pussy-whipped dipshit jizzed all over himself to do the job personally. "What do you want for it?" I turn around to face her.

"What?"

"How much for the car?"

"It's not for sale. I need it."

"I'll give you double what you sank into it." Not a wise investment, but I want it back. I was under the impression it had been stripped and crushed, not sitting in a yard.

"That's a generous offer, but it still isn't for sale." She sits back and crosses one bare leg over the other, cupping her steaming mug. "Why so interested?"

Why so stubborn? "I've got a nice VW sitting behind the back cabin. I'll trade you that one and whatever cash you want on top."

"You didn't answer my question," she responds in a teasing voice.

"It's mine."

"Uh, no. It's very clearly mine," she retorts.

"It was mine," I say. Her expression registers nothing. "Wrecked it on the 9 three years ago."

"That's a bummer." She blows over the top of her coffee then takes a sip.

"Yeah," I reply. "Ruined my whole day." And killed my brother, his girlfriend, and cut the last tie I had to my parents, to a home. I look out the screen again and imagine Anthony sitting in the passenger seat, honking the horn and yelling out the window for me to hurry the hell up.

"I didn't get your name," she announces.

"Anthony," I mutter. It's habit. I haven't used my own name since I left New York. Being a dead guy provides convenient cover.

"Really? You don't look like an Anthony."

That's bullshit. Two years apart, my brother and I could pass for twins. We were damn near identical when we had the same haircut.

"Why this one?" I ask.

I feel her come to stand beside me. Her arm brushes mine and I know it's intentional. "I fell in love. When I was little, my mom and I used to go on road trips during the summer. We did all the tourist stuff. Collected tacky T-shirts." She looks up and waits until I give her my attention. "And we covered the back of her car with bumper stickers from all the little towns we visited. She died when I was ten."

The smart thing to do now is get the VW and leave, never looking back. There's no good reason not to take off and head as far west as I can get. The plan was one day. See the grave. I did that. And still I stare at this girl and my feet won't move.

"Call me Edward," I say.

"Edward." She smiles as my name leaves her lips, and for some reason I like it. I like that she doesn't hesitate. "I'm Bella."

"When the hardware store opens I'll get the parts to fix the faucet."

"You don't have to," Bella replies. "I can do it."

"I'll do it." I might never find my way back here, but I hate the idea of this place decomposing bit by bit. Fixing a damn faucet feels necessary.

"Can I come with you?" She bites her lip again. I want to tell her to stop doing that.

"Fine." I swallow the last of my coffee and hand her the mug. "Be ready at nine."

I leave her and return to the dark cabin across the yard. In the shower I again go over all the reasons I should immediately kick up dirt behind my tires and put this place in my rearview mirror. The longer I stay, the shorter my life expectancy. A busted faucet has to be the worst possible excuse for delaying my departure. But it's not just that. Anthony is everywhere. He's been beside me since I came down from the Gothics. It's harder to walk away when I haven't felt this close to him in years.

Bella. I don't know what to make of her. The story about my car seems reasonable enough, though I can't shake the funny feeling I get about her. Granted, there are a dozen questions I don't have answers to.

Why is she here?

Why is she here alone?

Why go to a junkyard to buy a car if she can afford a rental house for a summer vacation?

Why not turn around and go home if her car was unsalvageable?

How long has she been here?

When is she leaving?

Where is she from?

Then there are the questions to which my mind automatically turns.

Who does she work for?

When you drop off the map, you're supposed to stay hidden. Whether it is good fortune or just a inch of goodwill that's kept me alive this long, surely that limit is reached if the wrong people catch my head poking up from underground.

"Relax, Thiny." He hates it when I call him that, which is why I do it.

"I am relaxed," he mutters.

"Yeah, okay. If you were any calmer I'd have to strap you down."

"Fuck you," he snaps.

"I don't take it up the ass, but I'll let you suck my dick."

"How about I hang you up by your nut sack and do a bit of bating practice on your kneecaps?"

"Ooh," I laugh. "You kinky fuck."

Anthony smirks, shaking his head. "I'm not paranoid," he says. "I just have a bad feeling, that's all."

"I told you not to get the eel roll. You have such a delicate constitution, you fucking baby."

We hear footsteps in the corridor on the other side of the door. I straighten up and put my back to the wall. Anthony meets my eyes and places a finger over his lips. I cock my weapon and take a deep breath.

Under the hot spray, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the tile. I can't get a good read on Bella. I've never been one for paranoia or funny feelings, but suppose it's just his way of warning me to tread carefully. If there is something amiss, my time might just be well spent to discover what that is.

And she's not half-bad to look at.

Okay. Watch her. Figure out her angle. Fuck her, and get the hell out of Dodge. Good plan.

I fist my hand around my swollen cock and yank one out to the snapshot in my mind of Bella's pale flesh draped in sunlight.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Thank you to my new pre-reader, Hadley Hemingway**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Network Moment**

'**I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!'**

"So you're up here alone?" I ask Bella. She sits behind me on the edge of the tub while I install the new faucet on the bathroom sink.

"I was,"she says to my back. I glance up at her reflection in the mirror. "And then you showed up just in the nick of time."

"Right."

"What about you?" Bella regards me with a knowing smirk, as if to say she's aware I was beating off not three hours ago to the fantasy of her bare ass bent over this sink. "All on your lonesome?"

"Not staying long," I answer. "There was someone I had to see." I finish tightening the new faucet knob to the fixture and then turn around. "I'm going to turn on the water," I say. "Test it out and let me know if it works."

She stands, again brushing her arm against mine as we pass each other. Definitely intentional, which gets me wondering. In the kitchen I reach to the back of the cabinet under the sink and turn the valve.

"It works," Bella shouts.

I get up and wash my hands. She appears beside me, taking a pitcher from the refrigerator.

"Lemonade," she tells me. "Want some?"

"Sure." I'm not done asking questions.

Bella goes to the overhead cabinet and pulls down two ugly glasses with sunflowers painted on them. There used to be a set of eight, but Anthony broke one when he tripped over an exposed root along the road to the lake, splattering the glass and the screwdriver he was drinking over the pavement. I broke another one, because it seemed wrong to leave an odd number of glasses.

"I don't take you for a plumber," Bella says as she hands me my drink. I lean against the counter while she takes a seat at the kitchen table.

"Yeah?"

"You'd be the fittest plumber I've ever met. Somehow I don't think you get abs like those from bending over toilets, or arms like that from wielding wrenches."

"I told you. I like climbing."

"So what do you do?"

I shrug.

"Does it pay well?" she asks with a smile.

"I manage."

"Must be nice," she says.

"How about yourself?"

"I guess you could say I'm between jobs," Bella answers. She looks toward the window.

During the course of our morning, I've seen her demeanor transition numerous times, transforming on a dime. And yet I get the sense I still haven't seen the genuine article behind her many faces.

"I had a Network moment," she says. A secret smile reaches her eyes as she turns to face me.

"A what?"

"The movie," she explains. "Peter Finch and Faye Dunaway."

"Sorry," I say. "Don't know it."

"Yeah you do," Bella says. "Howard Beale is clenching the front of the anchor desk on the nightly news, lamenting the depression, inflation, crime, and everything else fucked about the era. Then he gets up," she says, standing, "and yells into the camera, 'I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!'" Bella shakes both fists in the air, but the display is unconvincing. I do know the line, though.

"And?"

She laughs at herself, flopping back down in the chair. "Maybe I should have referenced Jerry Maguire instead. Although, I didn't have some great epiphany of conscience. I just woke up one morning and decided I hated my job, hated my apartment, and hated my life. So I left."

"And here you are."

She spreads her arms out, giving the room a cursory glance. "Here I am with the alphabet collages, yarn webs, action-figure architecture, and you."

"Tossing your life savings into a shitty rental house in the middle of nowhere," I continue. It's a nice story, but I'm not buying it.

"And your car," she adds. "Let's not forget about that."

As if I could. And I wonder if she sees how much it pisses me off that she mentions it.

"I figured a little solitude could do me good," Bella tells me. "Get out of the city, back to nature, and figure out what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my life."

"How long ago was that?" I ask.

She smiles in a self-deprecating way, almost bashful. "Three months."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Brilliant," she remarks. "Obviously."

I can't get a read on her, but I know this: The woman is bullshitting me. And for some reason, I get the sense that Bella knows she's playing to a suspicious audience.

But she still gives my dick a twitch. No reason to alter plans in that regard. One more day, and then I'm gone.

"You hungry?" she asks.

"I could eat."

xXx

"Doc!" Emmett's voice follows the loud bang of the front door bouncing off the interior wall of my parents' apartment. "We need you!"

"Get him to the kitchen," Jasper commands.

"Fuck," Peter wails. Incoherent groaning follows.

Anthony and I run from the living room to see Emmett and Jasper bump against the walls of the tight hallway carrying Peter toward the kitchen.

"What the fuck happened?" Anthony asks. The men shove past us and dump Peter on the kitchen table.

"It fucking hurts, man," Peter whines. "Shit, it's bad. It's bad isn't it?"

My father comes in from the bedroom carrying his medical bag. "Cut his shirt off," he orders. Carlisle sets his kit on the counter before taking a bottle of rubbing alcohol from under the sink and dousing both hands.

"They hit the Lantern Pub," Jasper answers. "Five of them."

I rip open Peter's shirt, exposing the gushing hole in his abdomen. He fights, writhing in pain. Anthony finds a pair of scissors and cuts off one leg of Peter's jeans. Another hole in his thigh streams red over the table and drips to the laminate floor.

"Anthony, tie off that leg," our father commands. Carlisle turns around with a needle prepared. "Hold him still."

Emmett grabs Peter's feet while Jasper puts his weight down on his biceps, keeping his body pinned. Carlisle sticks him in the arm and retracts the syringe.

"We don't have time to wait," my father says. "Give him something to bite down on."

"Fuck," Peter wails. "Doc, you gotta help me. Don't let me die."

Jasper takes off his leather belt and doubles it over, sliding it between Peter's teeth and using the ends to hold Peter's head to the table. His eyes are anxious, terrified.

"You two," Carlisle says to Anthony and me. "Clean your hands. I need them."

We do as we're told, splashing rubbing alcohol up to our elbows, and then stand on either side of the table as our father instructs us to hold this, clamp that, press there.

"How many walked away?" I ask Jasper.

"Two."

Anthony's eyes meet mine. Peter groans and screams through the bit in his mouth. No one in this building will call the police. Such noises barely get noticed in our neighborhood.

"Garrett, Riley, Liam. They're all dead," Emmett snarls. He beats his fist against the refrigerator door.

"Aro?" Anthony asks. "Why now?"

"Why come at us in our own neighborhood in the middle of the day?" I question.

"Not Volturi," Jasper answers. "The Romanians."

I hold a metal instrument in place as Carlisle digs in Peter's belly for the first bullet. Anthony presses down on the wound in Peter's thigh, but the blood finds a path to the table anyway.

"Let go," my father says. I pull my hands away and take a step back.

"Well?" I address my brother.

Carlisle pulls the bullet from Peter's abdomen. If possible, more blood spews from the wound. He stopped fighting a while ago.

Jasper puts two fingers to Peter's neck and waits. "Barely," he says.

Carlisle shakes his head. He grabs the ceramic bowl with the discarded slug and chucks it at the wall, fragments shattering across the floor. "There's nothing I can do," he says with his back turned. "He needs blood. We don't have it."

"Take mine," Emmett says. "Hook me up."

"I can't type you," Carlisle exclaims in exasperation. "I can't type him." He turns to face Jasper, ignoring Anthony and me. My brother still hasn't given me an answer. "Do it."

Jasper places his hand over Peter's nose and mouth. It takes several seconds before Peter's eyes open. He struggles feebly. We watch and let it happen. And then he's gone.

"Let's go," Anthony says to me.

At some point in his past, I believe my father was a good man. He grew up poor, a street kid picking pockets for extra cash to help his mother. It was dumb fucking luck that one sweltering afternoon in August he picked the wrong mark. Instead of beating the shit out of the scrawny punk, the boss offered Carlisle a job. He became a package boy, running he didn't ask what to he didn't know whom. When that street kid was all grown up and his mom dead two years, the boss sent him to college and then medical school.

Our father never had a taste for violence, but he was clever, worked hard, and was damn grateful for the opportunity. That's how a gutter rat from Hell's Kitchen becomes a mob doctor for the Irish mafia. It was only natural that his sons would start picking up similar packages, except we didn't mind putting the bloody holes in the other side. It paid a hell of a lot better.

In spring the Romanians came to Midtown to start a fight. They fired the first shots, precipitating a war for our little corner of the island. Midtown raged and blood flowed down W 42nd Street while the brother bosses of Little Italy were content to hide out in Lower Manhattan, waiting to pick off the victor that emerged.

We pushed back, ridding our island of the red menace and sending them back over the Queensboro Bridge. But, by summer, the heat closed in. Anthony and I were instructed to lay low, wait it out. The boss would send for us when it was safe to go home. And then a fucking car accident took his life. Returning to the city, to that life, seemed pretty damn pointless after that.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** Thank you to **Hadley Hemingway** for pre-reading. She rocks.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Two Lies, One Truth**

**I want to fuck her like my enemy and then make her a traitor.**

Bella sits with her back to the window. Sunlight pours in around her and into the small kitchen with its laminate countertops and Reagan-era appliances, but her face is obscured in shadow, backlit to illuminate only the edges. All I know of her is in the periphery.

Over sandwiches, we've played Two Lies, One Truth. Only I'm not supposed to realize it's a game. The girl across the table, who knows just how attractive she is, licks her lips, laughs lightly, and slides glances from beneath those dark lashes. She understands what she's doing and I'm to eat it up, suck it from my fingers like spicy mustard.

"What did you do before turning your back on civilization?" I ask.

Bella bites her lip. "Waitress." She says this like a confession, as if embarrassed. Her eyes roll upward. "How typical, right?" A lie. "Most recently at this crummy sports bar. You know, the kind where the girls dress in tiny skirts, tall socks, and referee jerseys." Another lie. "Don't laugh," she warns, "but there was a time when I thought I'd be a ballerina archeologist." Bella smiles, eyes falling to the chipped plate of crumbs in front of her. One truth. "Princess fighter pilot was my backup plan."

"Solid career goals. What happened?"

"Well, I can't dance, I sunburn easily, never met my prince, and get queasy on roller coasters. So that left me with few options. Turns out balancing six beers and a plate of nachos on a tray is all I'm good at."

Every word out of her mouth is a euphemism for something and it's as if I don't understand her colloquialisms. "If you hated waitressing, why keep doing it? Why not quit sooner?"

Bella scoffs. "Why do we do anything we'd rather not? Money. I didn't go to college. I like eating. I like living indoors. I really miss cable," she adds, as she shoots a look of disappointment at the antenna TV in the living room that only picks up one fuzzy channel and only in green. "I didn't have a choice."

"Bullshit." I wipe my hands and ball up the napkin.

"What?"

"No one does anything they don't want to do. We all have choices."

"Maybe where you come from," she answers with a bitter tone. "But, in my experience, life is nothing but sucky jobs and compromises."

"No, it isn't. And shit like that is the worst kind of defeatist excuse. You said so yourself," I tell her. "You worked a job you hated because you needed the money. Food to buy and rent to pay. But waitressing isn't the only job out there and certainly not the only way to make a buck. For that matter," I say, while leaning back in the chair, "having a steady job and permanent place to live aren't necessities."

"So, now I'm spoiled because I don't want to be homeless and starving?"

There is some bite in that voice and I hear it screaming my name. Her claws are out, which I feel scratching down my back. The fight in her eyes gets me thinking about angry sex. Throw-her-against-a-wall sex. Knocking-over-furniture-and-breaking-lamps sex. I want to fuck her like my enemy and then make her a traitor.

"Everything is a choice," I say. My tone reveals nothing of the fantasy running its course. "You might not like the choices, but the options are there. No, I don't much care why any one person takes this over that, just that they own those decisions."

Bella glares at me. I see the argument in those coffee eyes. I also see the moment she decides I'm not worth the effort. "Must be nice to live in such a simple world." Telling me she's grown tired of my company, Bella takes our plates to dump them loudly in the sink. Water running, she scrubs the dishes with her back turned, hinting that I should take my leave. I should. Absolutely. But I knew the moment I stepped into a flooded bathroom that this layover had been extended.

"What?" she snaps. Her shoulders tense as if bracing for an attack.

"I like looking at you."

A dish clatters in the sink. She shuts off the faucet and turns to face me. For only the second time, I sense the pretense has fallen.

"Why are you here?" Her expression is grim, impatient.

"There was someone I had to see," I answer.

"You said that already. Who?"

Fear is an emotion I'm well acquainted with. I carry it with me up to every summit. My heart pounded faster every time Anthony and went out on a job. I saw it in the eyes of those who looked on me as the last image they'd glimpse of life, like my brother as they put him on the gurney. I know it well in a multitude of incarnations and so I recognize it now on the girl standing across the room. She is afraid of me or of what she fears I represent. But why?

I opt for honesty. Give a little to get a little. "My brother's girlfriend," I reply. "She's buried in Lake George."

Bella's expression falls. "I'm sorry." The sentiment is an automatic response. The inflection behind it is relief. "And your brother, where's he?"

"Scattered off the top of The Gothics. You're driving the car that killed them."

xXx

I've always had a tricky relationship with anesthesia and opiates. I suppose I wasn't engineered to enjoy the high, the numb feeling of narcotics.

Instead of the grogginess of waking from a deep and restful sleep, my arrival at consciousness in a hospital bed post-surgery is a collision. In an instant, the last hours before I was put under slam into me. Bright lights and incessant beeping from the heart monitor impede my ability to focus.

"Don't struggle," my father says. His hands push on my shoulders, forcing me to lie down. Wires and tubes hang from my arms. "Relax."

Breathing deeply, I shut my eyes and try to concentrate, sorting out the recent series of events. I remember the ambulance arriving at the wreck. EMTs loading a barely breathing Anthony on a gurney, strapping him down and placing an oxygen mask over his face. I fought to get a seat beside him, but was forced to another stretcher and loaded into a second vehicle. Caitlyn was dead when I pulled her from the car.

"Anthony," I demand. "Where is he?" I blink, trying to focus on the fuzzy image of my father standing beside the bed. "How bad is it?"

"The police are outside," he answers. "They want a statement."

"Anthony," I repeat, choking on the dryness in my throat. "Tell me—"

"Who was driving, Edward?" Carlisle's blue eyes are cold, accusatory.

My hands clench the sheets as the pain in my knee asserts itself. My head throbs. Across my body, aches become apparent and I have no idea of the extent of my injuries, only that I was able to stand when the EMTs tore Anthony from me and that the blood wasn't mine.

"Edward." Carlisle snaps his fingers an inch from my face. I look at him and see a stranger. We don't look like either of our parents, our green eyes and auburn-brown hair an anomaly that we never dared question aloud. "Answer me. Who was driving?"

My car wrapped around a tree on the side of a dark road. Flames climbing from another vehicle. Blood. Broken glass. I pried opened the door, unhooked his seat belt, and pulled him from the car. Which seat?

"I—I don't know. I can't—it's all a mess." I look at the ceiling. "Please," I beg. "Tell me about Anthony. Where's my brother?"

"Try harder," Carlisle insists. "It's your car. Were you drinking? They've taken a blood sample, Edward. We'll know—"

"No!" I shout. The effort tears like claws across my chest.

"Don't lie to me!" Carlisle's hand on my shoulder tightens, his thumb digging into the muscle. "You were driving, weren't you?"

"I don't remember," I repeat. "Where is he?"

"He's dead. You killed him."

I didn't hear a word that exploded around me after his confirmation. Hands constricted around my neck and I didn't struggle. I didn't fight him off. No matter if I was driving or not, my brother was dead. He was the only family I had, my best friend. Anthony was gone and, for the first time in my life, I had to face the world without someone watching my back.

Alarms rang. Others rushed into the room, prying Carlisle away. Three days later I assumed a dead man's identity and left that life behind.

I've spent the last few hours, since the abrupt end of lunch with Bella, cleaning my gun and trying to explain to my brother why I am ignoring good sense to stick around here. Staring in the bathroom mirror, I don't recognize myself. There used to be two of us. Now the single face reflected back doesn't represent either. I dedicate the next several minutes to coating the bathroom sink in the cabin Anthony and I used to share with strands of hair and bits of my beard's overgrowth. Over my entire head and face I shave down to a quarter-inch.

I want her to say my name again, if only to remind me who I am. When you move around so much, living a persona that isn't your own and avoiding prolonged interaction, it is easy to lose your sense of self. I need this distraction, a vacation from the life I've made. I need her to give me just a short reprieve from the bullshit act, long enough to connect with something real.

After a shower, I rummage in my duffle for the cleanest, least wrinkled shirt I can find and throw on a pair of jeans without holes in the knees or frays around the heels. For a few hours, maybe one night, she could make me feel human again.

At dusk, I arrive at the door to her cabin. Bella makes me wait a good, long time before answering.

"Come to borrow sugar?" she asks, leaning against the doorframe with her hair swept over one shoulder. At the very least, her smile tells me she's forgiven our earlier spat.

"Dinner," I say. "Let me take you out."

"Okay."

That was easy.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** Thank you to **Hadley Hemingway** for pre-reading. I hope you all are enjoying the ride so far. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 7: Hole in the wall**

**"I offered a meal, not a date."**

These places all look the same. In any state, off any highway across the country, a hole-in-the-wall diner has a stereotypical aesthetic that might as well be mandated by the Food and Drug administration. Laminate tables between wooden benches with pleather upholstery in a color no reasonable person would bring inside his home. Similar tables surrounded with one of two requisite models of either wooden or metal chairs. The counter is optional, but common. Somewhere there is a bakery that specializes only in week-old pies intended to occupy the glass case that sits behind that counter.

All of these similarities, these reliable consistencies, are why I frequent such establishments populated with townie regulars and transient truck drivers. No matter where I am, these diners look the same.

"This is nice," Bella remarks as we wait for the waitress to return with our drinks. Her name tag says Melissa, but I'll call her Doris to preserve the theme.

"Not what you were expecting?" In the city, the restaurant would only be smaller, more crowded, and with a hint of urine stench under the smell of coffee and fried grease. "I offered a meal, not a date."

"I wasn't being sarcastic, but thanks for the clarification." She smiles with her snarky reply. "I like these dives. You know what you're getting. Predictable."

"Exactly."

"I live above a Jewish Deli. Lived," she amends. "My apartment always smelled like egg and pimento. Don't get me wrong, their sandwiches are delicious—"

"But you don't want it wafting up from the floorboards."

"Yeah."

"I get it."

"So…" Bella plays with her straw wrapper, folding it into an accordion pattern. "What about you? We've covered that you don't work, per se. Where are you from?"

"Manhattan, originally. Now I move around a lot."

"Doing what?"

"Cheating death."

"Ooh," Bella exclaims. "That's a good one. Perfect delivery. Flat inflection, hard eyes. You nailed it."

I smother a smile. "Like that, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," she says with a nod. "I'm stealing it. Definitely."

"Yeah, alright. A little dramatic."

"Just a smidge. But you pull it off," she says. "Don't change a thing."

"Good. Noted."

"So?" Bella waves her hand for me to continue.

"Getting into trouble."

The waitress returns, setting two sodas on the table.

Laughing, Bella holds her hands up in mock surrender. "Stop, stop. My pants are falling down my legs."

Doris looks uncomfortable at her arrival in this conversation and walks away without asking for our orders.

"Well, shit, you're easy," I reply.

Bella twists strands of hair around her finger. "That's what my brothers are always telling me."

I grimace, chuckling. "That's disgusting."

"For real this time," she says. "Or I'm going to assume you're either in witness protection or the CIA."

"For real," I answer, "I mostly move from one summit to the next."

"Mountain climbing."

"Yeah. I plan a trip, travel, stay and camp a while. In between, I pick a spot on the map, maybe the odd job here and there for a little cash. I take off when the mood strikes or the weather turns." When I've overstayed my welcome or anonymity.

"Wow." Leaning back in the booth, Bella studies me, her eyes appraising and intelligent. "That's way better. Yeah. Lead with that. A girl will get all kinds of agreeable for the loner who drifts from one panoramic view to the next."

"You make it sound more romantic than it is," I reply. I didn't miss the implied offer, but we hadn't gotten our food yet. "Mostly it's cuts, scrapes, broken bones, bug bites, and pissing in the woods." Gun powder residue and looking over my shoulder.

"I thought that was the fun part," she jokes. "Guys love that shit. I'll bet you've pissed off the top of a mountain more than once."

I shrug. Of course I had.

"You learn a lot about yourself. When it's just you, hands and feet, and hard climb or long fall."

Doris bravely returns to take our orders. Over hamburgers and soggy fries, I elaborate on my recent excursions to the Superstitions and Queen Creek in Arizona. It's more information than I've divulged about myself in years. An hour goes by and this becomes the longest conversation I've held in months, that didn't involve a poker game.

Pulling myself up over the ledge, I find Anthony perched atop a boulder with miles of brown and orange spread out to the spotless blue horizon.

"Took you long enough," he calls over his shoulder.

"Thanks, asshole." I stand, dusting the clay from my chest and picking bits of rock from my bloody knees. "I'm not sporting these stitches for sympathy pussy."

"A flesh wound," he scoffs.

"I was shot."

Anthony tosses a bottle of water to my left side. I catch it, painfully, right before it plunges 3,700 feet back the way we came.

"You shouldn't have been standing there," he remarks with his back to me.

I finish two thirds of the bottle and douse my head with the remainder. Streaks of dirt slide down my abdomen. Dumping the belt of quickdraws, I sit beside my brother.

"Right," I answer. "Next time, I'll let you take the bullet."

Staring into the wild, he doesn't look at me. The wind at this altitude lashes at our backs, the sun pouring down unfettered. We're quiet for a while, appreciating the stillness that you only find at heights so far above the trite, menial concerns below. Life is simple up here. When you're climbing, you have only one concern: don't fall. That's it. When you reach the top, there's nothing left to worry about.

"Your life isn't worth any less than mine," Anthony says. "Remember that."

It's worth more to me.

"You really miss him."

I blink, realizing the table's been cleared and I have no idea the last words I said aloud. Bella regards me with familiarity. We're strangers, though both unwilling members in the same club.

"Yeah." I scratch at the stubble under my chin. One word. That's all I have for my brother. "Do you ever..." Pretend he's still alive. Drift into a dreamscape where he still talks to me. "Your mom passed away when you were a kid, right? Do you still think about her?"

"Of course." Bella picks at her napkin, twisting the corners into tight spires. "All the time."

"Like she's just in the next room?" I watch her fingers manipulate the white paper. "You're sitting on the couch, and it's like she's out at the grocery store or in the shower. You want to sit in the fantasy, perfectly still and completely silent, for as long as it will last. It's that good sort of anticipation."

"Sometimes," she answers with her brow furrowed. "It's more when I come home. Like up here. I walk through the door—this place she's never been and I know that—expecting her to call to me from the kitchen and tell me to start my homework, dinner will be ready soon." She rips one of the pointed corners, flicking the paper at the table. "Less so as the years go by. More so when I'm alone."

"Thank you."

Bella looks up. Behind her dulling eyes, in the flat line of her lips, I see the clouds closing in. "For what?"

"Being honest."


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** Thank you to **Hadley Hemingway** for pre-reading. I hope you all are enjoying the ride so far. :-)

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Slovak**

**"He sent a message."**

"Thanks for the meal that wasn't a date." Bella leans against the passenger side of my car—shrouded in darkness, but somewhat less of an enigma.

"You can never leave well enough alone," Anthony tells me. "Always have to look inside the box. You know it's going to be a severed head. Walk away."

True. I want to see it, though. Know the thing. Knowledge is hollow without personal experience.

"It wasn't exactly fun," she remarks. "But I still enjoyed the company."

"You've been up here by yourself for a long time." I cross my arms over the roof of the car. Her expression is impossible to read in the dark. "So I'll take that as only a mild compliment."

"Seems conversation has been in short supply for us both." She makes her way around the front of the car toward the main house. "Bored yet?"

"Not yet," I answer, watching her climb the steps to the front porch.

"Want a beer?" Bella holds open the screen door. She's making this easy.

"Nail her, if you must." Anthony's voice is nearly indistinguishable from mine. "Then wash that shit off and move on." In life and in death.

For the first time, talking to a woman, just having a dialogue about something or nothing, is more appealing than wetting my dick.

"Grab a few," I tell her. "Then come take a walk with me."

xXx

"I think this is the sort of thing my mom should have warned me about," Bella says. I carry the six-pack of beer and she hugs my bicep as I guide her along the side of the vacant road. I could have brought a flashlight for the pitch-black walk to the lake, but I didn't. "Do not let a strange man escort you into the woods at night."

Certainly not an armed man. Real people have concerns like that. At the moment, I'm pretty sure I'm the most dangerous thing occupying these trees.

"Should have?" I ask.

"She wasn't the mothering type. Didn't have a worried bone in her body. Easily distracted by shiny objects," she jokes. "That sort of thing. Renee incubated a best friend for nine months, not a daughter." Bella stumbles beside me, tugging my arm as she falters. I grab her waist to right her footing. "Thanks."

"But she loved you."

"She did. Took me everywhere, road trips, girls' nights with her friends. My childhood was like a less famous, less glamorous version of Drew Barrymore."

"So you were snorting coke by age ten with bottle service at Studio 54?"

"More like Shirley Temples in Chelsea, but you get the idea."

"Dad in the picture?" I turned us down the dirt path to the lake, letting the leaves brush my left shoulder to lead us in the right direction.

"Yes and no." Her tone drops. I hear resignation rather than sadness for a lost parent or bitterness for a rotten one. "The abridged version is he's in prison. Went away six months before my mom died."

"And the feature-length story goes…"

Bella doesn't respond. I can be patient. Without prodding, I take us to the sandy beach where the moonlight bounces off the mirrored pool. After discarding my shoes and socks, I bury our beer bottles up to their necks in the cool, damp sand just at the lake's edge, save two that I pop open using the silver ring on my middle finger. We sit, watching the stars' reflection travel and undulate across the water's surface.

Bella leans backward on her flat palms, legs extended, and stares up at the speckled sky. "They're all dead," she remarks.

"Who?"

"The stars. Like a band you've just discovered, only to find out they broke up a year ago. The light takes so long to reach us that, by the time it does, the star has long since been extinguished."

There is something poignant there that should have struck me. All I think about is how the patterns overhead shift when my latitude changes.

"My brother taught me to spot the constellations." Facing northwest, I scan the sky until I find Polaris at the lower tip of the Little Dipper's handle. From there, my eyes cut a line through Ursa Minor and down to Kocab. "Like Ursa Major."

"Show me." She leans closer, trying to align her gaze with mine. I take her hand, tracing the air with her index finger.

"Dubhe," I point out as I draw a line westward, "Alioth. Alkaid." I draw the constellation down the Big Dipper. "And if you 'arc to Arcturus,'" I quote the mnemonic, "you find Boötes, the Herdsman. He's really a ice cream cone with legs." Bella laughs, as I direct her attention south. "And then 'speed on to Spica.' That," I punctuate by stabbing her finger at the pinprick of light, "is Virgo."

"My sign." We're on a roll. She hasn't lied in almost an hour. "What about you?"

"Conveniently," I say, as I drag her fingers to the east, "the virgin lies beneath the lion." I guide her hand in drawing Leo to the point of the sickle of the cosmic creature. "So that worked out nicely."

Bella drops her hand, shoving at my shoulder. "I walked right into that, didn't I?"

"Ran headlong."

"Are you really a Leo or is that just a line you use with every girl you coerce into the forest in the middle of the night?"

The insinuation irks me. All I want is to share something real, even if it is temporary. Why I am getting shit for it? "Born July thirtieth," I confirm. "You weren't coerced. And I don't make it a habit to share my sky with anyone."

"Well, then." Bella sits back, hands outstretched behind her. Not fucking good enough.

I lean over her partially prone form. Though I'm not touching her, I feel Bella tense as if I'm the unknown quantity. Yes, she still fears me, and I don't know why that excites me. Experimenting, I slide my hand around her neck to barely grip the slender column. She can escape if she wants to. Instead, I feel her pulse race as she holds her breath.

"Bella, if I wanted to hurt you, it'd be done." I trace my thumb along her jaw. She swallows beneath my palm. "When I'm ready to have you, I will." Her lips part, but she says nothing. This woman was a sure thing the moment she stripped down and gave me a show. To say otherwise is meaningless. "I'm not feeding you lines. What I want now is your company. Give me the stars, the water, and a moment of honest humanity."

"Edward," she whispers my name. I inhale, as if to breathe the sound. Her hand finds my wrist against her throat. "What happened to your humanity?"

I all but ignore the question to press my nose against her temple. I'm hard, imagining her naked, legs wrapped around my hips, nails clawing down my back. My name on her lips again and again. I could know myself with her.

"Maybe I was born without it," I mutter.

She pulls away. "What about honesty?"

My hand falls to the sand and I let her retreat, putting a foot of charged air between us. "I haven't lied to you yet."

Bella bring her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her crossed forearms. I watch the spotted blanket above us where the virgin drifts and the lion waits.

"What do you hope to gain out of this?" Anthony asks. He leans against the brick wall opposite me in the narrow alley, one hand on the pistol tucked in the front of his jeans.

I watch the door to my left. This one's different. Personal. "We're just going to talk." In the dark, my Beretta stares at the pavement.

"And if you don't like what you hear?" my brother asks. I meet his eyes across the alley. "You know this ends only one way."

"Indulge me," I answer.

The door opens and 180 pounds of stinking drunk Slovak stumbles out. He trips over the threshold and into the shadows.

"Hey!" Vincent greets me with a bleary expression and thick accent. "The little Cullen brother. You are a long way from home, Edward." He wipes his mouth as he limps toward the open end of the alley.

I put my left hand on his shoulder, halting his departure. Vincent smiles, but it's confused, hesitant. His first tell.

"Vincent," Anthony says as he pushes off the opposite wall. "You know better."

His attention turns to my brother, who approaches from behind. Vincent knows he's trapped. Right now, he's carefully collating his next words. The middle-aged man has a bad hip and isn't nearly fast enough to disarm either of us—sober or otherwise. If he swings for the fences, he'll only make this easier on us.

"Over here," I tell him, tapping the barrel of my gun to his forehead. "You speak to me and you do so clearly." Vincent's smile reveals his anxiety. "You've been spending an awful lot of time below Houston Street. Now I find you here." Falling out of a bar at Grand and Mulberry, right in the middle of Little Italy. "So I have to ask why."

Vincent laughs, brushing my hand off his shoulder. "You can't touch me," he scoffs. Really? Just did. "Who are you, eh? No one. A package boy."

"True," I concede. "Though lately I've been thinking about broadening my horizons."

"Taking some initiative," Anthony adds.

"Realizing my potential." I scratch my chin with the barrel of the gun, reminding him it's there, to watch his eyes hone in on my finger beside the trigger. Go for it, Vincent. I've done the work for you. It's right there. Reach out and pull.

But of course he doesn't. Anthony has a Sig pointed at the back of his head.

"Your boss—"

"Your boss too," I remind him.

"Expects information. I provide that. But to get it," he gestures at the door to his left, "I have to venture where others, like yourself, shouldn't be seen."

"Thing is, your information got three of ours arrested this month."

"My brother took a bullet," Anthony says. "I'd call that bad info."

"You're slipping, Vincent. Or you're a liar. Either way, not very useful."

"I tell what I know. If you fuck up, that's not my fault." His grimace of indignation fails to impress me. "And you, boy, are operating past your depth."

I glance over his shoulder at my brother. "Is that what we're doing?" Anthony shrugs, offering a crooked smirk. "Lucky I'm a good swimmer." My eyes land on the man spewing putrid breath for only a minute more. "I have other talents," I tell him. "Like sniffing bullshit."

"If the boss wanted me dead—"

"Why would that be?" I ask as I drop the gun to my side.

"He'd send a killer." Vincent puts a hand to my chest, shoving me aside. Never dismiss the unknown quantity.

I grab his arm, twisting it behind his back and kicking at his bad leg to drop the old man to his knees. The gun is cocked and pressed to the back of his skull.

"He sent a message."

Pulling a trigger isn't a skill at close range. The talent is in feeling nothing when the job is done. I tug the silver ring from his hand, Anthony and I leaving the body for its intended recipient.

"He was a crooked cop," Bella announces.

I exhale and reflexively place a hand at the small of my back where my Beretta waits. Sand under my toes. Open sky above. I glance at Bella and realize she's filled the silence that I can't begin to calculate.

"My father," she clarifies. "Got thirty-five years on eight felony convictions. My mom was collateral damage for the people he pissed off."

"What happened to you after that?"

"A family friend took me in. Got me out of foster care. He already had four biological sons, but gave me my own room, a bed, food to eat and clothes to wear. Raised me as his daughter and made me feel like I belonged. He's my real dad," she says with perceptible conviction in her tone. "I don't even remember what Charlie looks like."

Bella stood, pulling her shirt over her head. "I'm getting wet." She slid her jeans down her legs, discarding her panties and bra to the sand in a pile. "Join me."

Neither of us had touched our beers. 


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Pre-read by Hadley Hemingway, who didn't leave you hanging on a chapter that ended too soon.:-)

* * *

**Chapter 9: Do Not Answer**

**"I'm like a revenge ninja and your worst nightmare."**

**"All I see is a sandy scaredy cat with nice tits."**

A siren calling me to the water, Bella wades into the lake with reflected starlight dancing across her pale skin.

"Nice ass," Anthony remarks. Yes, that too. "So, get it over with already."

I'm not fucking her in the lake.

"Performance anxiety?"

Asshole. No, sex in water only sounds good in theory.

"No such thing as bad sex."

False. There are a thousand ways to have terrible sex. Water is one ingredient.

"Please, wise brother, do tell."

Well, the water is freezing.

"And if your dick gets any smaller she'll need Jacques Cousteau to find it."

We have the same genetics, dipshit. You want to rethink that one?

"Stricken from the record."

It comes down to lubrication.

"Now I'm listening."

She gets the right kind of wet all on her own.

"You're supposed to be involved somehow."

You know what I mean. Her pussy gets all soft and silky, just right. Submerge in water and all that creamy goodness is washed away. Then it's like trying to put on jeans right after a shower.

"So your dick's the legs and her pussy is the jeans? Am I getting this right?"

That's the gist. A lot of shoving and cramming, and it feels awful for all involved.

"There went my boner."

Grow up, jackass.

"I'm as old as you remember me," Anthony answers. Because he's dead and isn't getting any older. "You're the big brother now."

That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard.

"Are you going to stand me up?" Bella calls. I find her silhouette, just shoulders and a face peeking above the surface.

"Don't leave the girl you're not going to fuck in the lake waiting," Anthony says.

I get to my feet and strip, leaving my gun hidden in the pile of clothing. She must know I've had it on me, but it's habit. Never flash a weapon unless you intend to use it.

"For the record," Anthony says.

"What?" I walk to water's edge and farther.

"She's seducing you."

"I noticed."

"I wonder why that is," he replies. Vague bastard.

"Because we're so fucking good to look at." Sinking into the cold, I approach Bella.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Nothing. Talking to myself."

She has an odd way about her, at once secure and yet wary, vulnerable. It's honest, though. Her veneer is a precisely hung set of vertical blinds. No matter how you rotate them, a little light shines through. Her eyes are expressive and she knows this, often hiding behind her lashes and looking away. Eye contact makes her uncomfortable. There's something in them she doesn't want me to see.

"I haven't lost your interest already," she teases. The smile is genuine. I like that.

"Not even close."

I could watch her for hours, picking apart her tells, trying to create a picture of the unspoken pieces. But she doesn't like to be watched, so I have to talk or keep her talking to take advantage of the time.

"If you have a strong relationship with your adoptive family, why run away?"

"Uh-huh." Bella sways, dragging her arms through the water and creating a current around us. "I was last to share. Your turn."

"Fair enough. What do you want to know?" I crouch under the surface, making myself shorter and less imposing against her slight stature.

"You're all caught up on Renee and Charlie, so tell me about your parents," she says in an offhanded way. Like deciding between soup and salad, she picks the topic out of the air.

Ask me anything else.

The plea must register in my silence. "What, sore subject?"

"Pulling that card wouldn't be fair," I answer. Give a little, get a little.

"True."

I watch the tops of her breasts cut through the glittering reflection on the surface, a little mesmerized. Yeah, keeping doing that and I'll talk your ear off.

"There isn't much to tell," I say. "I haven't had a relationship with them since my brother's death. It wasn't great before that."

"They still live in the city?"

"As far as I know." Can't imagine a scenario where they would or could get out.

"Why the rift?"

"You said you've got four brothers, right?"

"Yeah."

"Does one of them catch more shit than the others?"

Bella puts on her thinking face, a sort of scrunched expression of contemplation. "Our dad's tough on everyone. Especially his sons."

"And I bet you're his pretty, pretty princess."

She smiles, wide and guilty as charged.

"So?" I prod.

"The oldest probably gets it the worst. He's supposed to keep the rest of them in line, you know?"

"Just the opposite in my family," I answer.

"I looked out for you," Anthony says in his own defense.

You did. Still do.

"My brother was the favorite. Smarter, better in every way as far as my father was concerned. I was the mistake."

"Fuck that asshole," he replies. No argument here.

"He sounds like a massive prick," Bella says. Still no argument. "Sorry."

"Don't be," I tell her. "He is. And my mom was just sort of there. I'm not sure she has a personality unless my father tells her to."

"So your brother died and that cut the ties. You went your own way."

"It's like I'm not even here," Anthony interjects.

You're a fucking riot.

"Oh, come on. You're killing me," he replies.

Still not laughing.

Can the dead voice in my head sigh? Anthony does, sitting on the shore with his elbows on his knees. "You've got a hot little number all slippery. Why are we talking about Carlisle and Esme? This shit's depressing as fuck."

Sorry to disappoint.

"You know there's no pussy in the afterlife, right?" Anthony throws a handful of sand at nothing. "I'm living vicariously through your exploits, which have been very PG-13 thus far. Throw me a damn bone."

No jerking off in my delusions.

"Where'd you go just now?" Bella's hand rests on my shoulder, bringing me out of my head.

"Huh?"

"You do that a lot," she says. She's still touching me, and it's better than it ought to be. "Drift off."

"Sorry. It's not you." I lay my hand over hers, sliding it down my chest. She watches, lips parted and breathing a little faster. "I guess I have spent too much time alone."

"We should trade for a while." Bella moves closer, standing between my bent legs. "It's too crowded where I come from, too many people in my bubble. I've enjoyed the quiet up here."

Releasing her hand, I take her waist. "I don't think I could live that way anymore. I've changed too much. As it is, no one expects anything from me. I don't answer to anyone. My time is my own."

"Sounds ideal," she says. Bella trails her fingers across my chest, drawing patterns with the trickles of water left behind, branding me with the heat of her touch. "I'd give almost anything to have that kind of autonomy."

"You're here," I reply. My hand explores the curve of her spine and swell of her hips. The water's cold, but I choose to believe the goose bumps are my doing. "You've taken the first step. The rest is anything you make of it."

Her expression falls as her eyes land below my throat. "I'm kidding myself," she says. "This is a hiatus. I'll end up back home, one way or another."

"It doesn't have to be that way." I take her chin and coax her eyes to mine. "I won't tell you life's too short or too precious. What I've learned is that living doesn't mean much if your life isn't your own. You have to be selfish, do what makes you happy. Because one day you'll wake up alone and have to answer the face in the mirror for the choices you've made."

Bella pulls my hand away. "Sometimes there are only bad choices," she answers with a tone of regret. "I—"

We both look to the shore, startled by a noise in the trees. I push Bella behind me. My gun is sixty feet away and there's nowhere to run. I scan the black barrier of the forest, looking for a glint or dark figure to appear. It does, in the form of a fox scampering across the sand before disappearing into the trees. I exhale, releasing my death grip on Bella's arm.

"A fox," I mutter.

"A little jumpy, are we?" Anthony stands on the shore with a big, dumb grin.

No one's waiting to put a bullet in your back.

"There are benefits to being dead," he answers.

"Is it safe to come out?" Bella wears a similar expression of smug amusement.

"You're mocking me." I stand straight, a good foot taller than her.

She shrugs, still smiling. "That was very chivalrous of you to protect me from the cute, fluffy woodland creature."

Despite myself, she earns a reluctant smirk. "I was thinking only of your virtue. Who knows what sorts of pervert owls are hiding on branches to prey on beautiful, naked women."

"And lions and tigers and b—" Bella jumps a foot in the air, flailing her arms. "Holy shit!" She darts through the water and stands behind me, using my body as a shield. "Something touched me."

How can I not find this hilarious? I laugh, turning around to get a good look at her terrified expression.

"It's just a fish," I tell her.

Bella grabs my biceps, dragging me with her as she backs up toward the shore. "I don't care. I don't—" she shivers, cringing "I don't like it. Creeps me out."

"They can't hurt you." This side of her is kind of adorable.

"Doesn't mat—" She screams, jumping again. "They're chasing me!" Bella tries to make a run for it, but I grab her and toss her over my shoulder, bringing her bare ass right up to my face. "Put me down!"

"Back in there with the killer fish?"

"No! Get me out. Get me out."

With the broken reed in my left hand, I tickle her feet. She squirms, shrieking and pounding on my back. On dry sand, I dump her on her butt. Bella is up and charging at me in an instant.

"See? Now this getting good." Anthony watches as the nude, furious girl chases me down.

"You asshole," she shouts, smacking my arm. "You think that's funny, huh?"

I don't try to stifle my laughter as I back away, Bella still following and smacking the hell out of me. "Maybe a little," I say. "Don't dish it if you can't take it."

She comes to a halt, hands on her hips. "You made a big mistake," she growls. "I know where you sleep. I'm patient, quiet, and deadly. I'm like a revenge ninja and your worst nightmare."

"All I see is a sandy scaredy cat with nice tits."

Grunting in frustration, Bella kicks sand at me that doesn't rise above my knees. Adorably non-threatening. She stomps over to her pile of clothes, shaking them out before pulling her shirt over her head.

"You're not even going to rinse off?"

Her answer comes only in a glare.

"Suit yourself." I walk to the water to wash my legs and then get dressed. Yeah, putting on jeans with wet skin. Not pleasant.

On the walk back to the cabins, Bella has little choice but to take my arm and allow me to guide her along the side of the road. She softens, forgiving me—if only for the moment—for the prank. Seemingly more at ease, she talks about a trip to Vermont with her mother. Headlights come around the corner, so I move us farther from the shoulder. In the glow, I see the entrance to our dirt driveway. That's when I realize how little notice I've paid to this place since my arrival.

"Huh," Anthony says, mimicking my thoughts exactly. "I wonder why that is."

The houses out here are few and far between. The thick forest encroaches on the road quickly and isn't often trimmed back. If you don't know where you're going, it's easy to miss the hidden entrance to our property. For that reason, the crazy artist lady always had the realtor that rented out the place put this hideous, two-foot-tall gnome at the end of the driveway. When my parents took over the property we kept the tradition to help guide our renters or guests we invited during the summer.

The ugly gnome is missing.

Now, maybe Bella had gotten sick of looking at the stupid thing and moved it. Maybe the realtor got lazy and didn't put it out. Perhaps a band of bat-wielding teenagers finally put the gnome out of his misery with a drive-by smashing. All were perfectly plausible explanations.

"And you don't believe a single one of them," Anthony remarks.

You're right.

"You know," I begin as I escort Bella toward the main house, "I had a hell of a time finding this place at first."

"Oh, yeah?"

Bella climbs the steps in front of me, holding the screen door open as an invitation. I follow along, surveying the porch as we take off our shoes and brush the sand from our feet. Inside, I scan my surroundings with new focus as she puts the sandy bottles of beer in the sink. From the fridge, she takes two more.

"The realtor told me to look for a statue at the end of the driveway. A gnome."

"Ah. Sorry about that," she says, popping the caps on each bottle and handing one to me. She passes me heading toward the bedroom. "Accidentally ran into it one night. It gets so dark, I didn't see it."

I stand at the foot of the bed while Bella walks into the bathroom. She sets the bottle on the towel rack inside the shower then peels off her clothes. "I'm going to clean up. You can hang out, if you want."

"Take your time," I answer.

She closes the door and I wait a moment after I hear the water running and the slide of the shower curtain. Then I go hunting.

"You're not going to like what you find," Anthony taunts as I step out the back door. He's right.

Outside, I find the gnome in his resting place, standing in three feet of overgrowth that has invaded what was once a tiny vegetable garden behind the main house. No one has touched him months, maybe years, judging by the bird shit and weeds clinging to his little body.

"You already know the woman's a liar," my brother says. "but who is she?"

I return to the bedroom to search for the answer. With an ear to the shower, I rifle through the drawers and closet until I find her backpack. The few items inside reveal more than hours of conversation, but it isn't anything I expected.

The New York driver's license identifies her as Isabella Marie Swan, born September 13, 1990, and residing at 328 E 6th Street in Manhattan. The wallet contains $27 in cash, a Metro card, gym membership, and debit and credit cards issued in the same name.

"So Bella is a liar who takes the subway. What else?"

I remove the only other two items from the bag: a cell phone and pistol.

"Look closer," Anthony says.

No need. I notice the similarities instantly. Isabella from E 6th Street, who doesn't work in a sports bar and once dreamed of a career as a princess fighter pilot, carries a Beretta of the exact model currently tucked into my waistband.

"You're soulmates," Anthony teases. I'm not in the mood.

I toss the loaded weapon to the bed and search through her phone. The speed dial list includes Dad and four males, who I assume to be her brothers. The last three entries look like Asian take-out restaurants and a pizza place. Her recent calls are empty, but the text messages reveal more.

"A boyfriend."

There are thirty-one text messages, all sent since I picked her up for dinner, from Do Not Answer.

"Do Not Answer is an extraordinary douche," Anthony says.

No, he's much worse. Scrolling through the messages, what I read begins with an irritated edge and devolves into angry vulgarities and outright threats. My hand clenches around the phone as Do Not Answer promises to find her, hurt her, and kill her.

"Walk away," Anthony warns. "You don't need this shit."

Too late.

I ignore my brother, tossing the phone next to the gun as I enter the bathroom.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** Thank you to **Hadley Hemingway** for pre-reading.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Birthday Candles**

**"I'm making it my problem."**

There is just something about a birthday blowjob that makes having a woman deep throat my cock all the more spectacular. Watching her mouth swallow me whole, I'm just drunk enough to imagine 21 colorful candles arranged like a crown on the top of her head.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I lean back on both palms and let my head fall. She is fucking brilliant. Popping the tip between her lips and stroking my shaft, her tongue plays Flight of the Bumblebee with my nuts.

"Shit, babe. You're amazing."

She looks up with coy eyes and a kitten smile. Streetlights cast shadow lines across her face through the window.

"You like that?" she asks.

"I like anything you'll give me."

"Sweet-talker." Her tongue licks up the underside of my dick and flicks across the slit. So fucking good.

"Don't let me interrupt," I say with groan. "You just keep doing what you're doing."

She hums to herself in that hungry, predatory way a woman does when eyeing chocolate, shoes, or a man she wants to suck dry. Her hand slides up and down as she rubs my piece against her cheek and pursed lips. I'd let her take a little nibble.

"You're big."

"Did my brother pay you to say that?"

"Hey." She grabs my balls and squeezes. "I'm not a whore. Nobody's paying me."

But she is a gift. "Kidding. Relax."

I comb my fingers into her hair. She resists just long enough to offer a half-assed glare. Then her mouth sinks down. Good girl.

Leaving the bar at 4:00 a.m., I damn near threw my brother in front of a bus for clockblocking anything with tits that got within ten feet of me. He kept me double-fisting shot glasses all night, but not one handful of ass.

Lo and behold, just when I thought Anthony had forsaken me or was finally getting even for the time I banged Mary Wright on our parents' bed and he took the heat for the condom wrapper left behind, I walked into my room to find a naked woman sprawled out and waiting with a bow tied around her hips.

"Happy birthday," he said as I stood in the doorway, dumbstruck. "Give her hell. I'll have my headphones on."

Fucking love my brother.

"Goddamn." This chick has no gag reflex. I nudge the back of her throat and she keeps going, sucking and swallowing until I think she might pop my cap off.

I hear voices. At first I think they must be coming from the street below. They grow louder, followed by banging and knocking around.

"Hold that thought, babe." I ease her off me, tugging my jeans and boxers up.

On her knees, she stares at me. "What?"

"May be nothing," I say as I stand.

"You're leaving?"

"Just for a minute."

She gets to her feet, the bow still hanging over her pussy. Haven't unwrapped that present yet. "I'm not done with you." Fingers dig into my waistband and tug. "Sit down."

The noise continues and it strikes an instinct.

"Come on," she says, kissing at my neck while her hand moves down the front of my pants to cup my junk. "We haven't gotten to the best part."

A loud thud kills my hard-on. I grab her wrist and back her up against the wall. "Get off my dick."

She flinches as I release her, looking offended. Can't blame her for that. "What the fuck, Cullen?"

"Get dressed. See yourself out. Quickly."

Leaving her behind, I zip up my pants and slip on a pair of shoes. The apartment next door has gone silent. My fists clench as I at kick the door and wait for an answer.

"What—"

I kick the door open, breaking the chain lock and the bastard's nose in the process. He wails in pain, clutching his bloody face. Bursting inside, I see the heap of a woman in front of the couch.

The man tries to struggle as he swings at the air and grabs my shirt. I take him by the neck, slamming his head into the wall until he loses some of his fight, then I haul him by the collar across the living room. It's a chore, but I manage to get all 200 pounds of his sorry ass on the fire escape.

He latches on to the window sill, the ladder, the railing. Anything to forestall the inevitable. Two punches to the kidney loosens his grip. Then it's a short trip to the pavement below, face first. On the way out, I grab a dish rag and use the phone on the kitchen wall to dial 911 and leave the handset resting on the counter.

Anthony is waiting for me in the living room of our apartment when I walk in.

"What?" I ask as I go to the kitchen sink and wash the blood from my hands. Some of it got on my shirt, so I pull it off and douse it with the bottle of bleach from under the counter while the basin fills with water.

"Did he deserve it?"

"The lady on the floor probably thinks so." Dispatch will have to send someone for the hanging call. They'll find her. Nothing more I can do there. Nobody talks to the cops in our neighborhood.

"The boss isn't going to like it."

I shrug. "She gone?"

"What a waste," Anthony answers with a smirk.

The next day, I was picked up off the street and taken to a basement, where some lackeys looking to make their bones with my hide laid into me for a half-hour.

Worth it.

xXx

Bella startles when I yank the shower curtain. She stands under the spray, dripping soap, like a wet and frightened lamb. But only for a second. An instinct. Reflex. She looks me over and relaxes, dropping her hands from her chest.

"You scared me," she says.

"We need to talk."

"Getting impatient? I'll be out in a minute." Bella turns toward the faucet, rinsing the soap from every slick, enticing curve of her body.

"Now." Reaching in, I shut off the faucet and shove a towel at her. "Get out."

"What's with the attitude?" She wraps herself in terry cloth, scowling at me. I step aside and let her see the contents of her bag laid out on the bed. "You went through my stuff?"

Shoving past me, she goes for the gun. My hand goes to my back as her fingers hover over the weapon. Instead, she picks up the phone and stares at the black screen.

"Tell me the truth," I demand. "You're not renting this place."

"No."

"Look at me."

Her coffee eyes lift to mine. There's trepidation inside all that darkness.

"No," she repeats.

"So you broke in. You're squatting and hoped no one would notice."

"If someone showed up, I figured I would just claim ignorance and move into one of the other two cabins. Take off if I had to."

"Why?"

Her expression turns incredulous. "Don't fuck with me, Edward. Get it over with."

"She's got a point," Anthony says. "Make a choice."

Does it matter? I wouldn't give a fuck if this place burned to the ground. Just as well. So what if this girl is using it as a free crash pad? She obviously ran because she had nowhere else to go. That pisses me off. A woman with a decent father and four brothers should be un-fucking-touchable. It riled my instinct to track these dickless shits down and show them the right way to make a man suffer.

Then again, maybe Bella thinks she's protecting them. She already has one father in prison. Yeah, she strikes me as the type to hide out in the woods with nothing more than her wits and twenty-three rounds of ammo for protection. Just brave enough to get herself killed.

"There you have it, then," Anthony says. "Right back where we started." Bella standing in front of me, a beautiful stranger who doesn't belong, wrapped in a towel.

In two strides, I have my fist in her hair and my tongue in her mouth. I back her up to the wall and rip the towel from her body. Damp skin presses to mine as she tugs at my shirt until it lands on the floor. Bella bites my lip and hikes one leg around my hip to grind her bare pussy against my hardening cock.

"Aren't you mad?" she asks.

"Furious."

Murderous thoughts consume my mind like ticks latching on and sucking, maggots burrowing in and eating away until nothing is left but a cold, hardened skeleton that will feel no remorse. I barely know her, but I'd kill for her. It's what I'm good at. I want to.

Behind me, I hear her phone vibrate on the bed. Her body tenses in my arms.

"Don't," she says. Eyes full of concern plead with mine. They aren't enough to settle the rage.

I grab the phone to see another text message from Do Not Answer. This one is more graphic than the last. He's escalating.

"What does it say?"

I chuck the phone through the open bathroom door and it shatters against the opposite wall.

"What's his name?" I demand.

"It isn't your problem." She backs away, fight and fire in her eyes. But it only stokes me further.

Taking her by the waist, I push her against the wall, trapping her because I know at any moment she might run. "I'm making it my problem."

Bella presses her hands to my chest, but doesn't have the will to make me stop. "I don't want your help."

"You'll take it anyway." And I'm done talking.

I claim her lips and they yield, so responsive. Her nails digging into the back of my neck speak to her combative instinct. All it tells me is that she hasn't had a good fuck in far too long. Grabbing her thigh in one hand, I spread her open and hook her leg around my hip. Her tongue battles mine to control the kiss, but I don't have the patience to debate gender roles. I'll show her how well I can know her, whether she wants me to see or not.

I slid my hand between her legs and find her wet. She whimpers as my finger teases her opening and my thumb brushes over her clit.

"How long has it been?" I ask, scraping my teeth along her neck.

"Since I've had sex?"

"Since a man has made you come." I bite at the beating pulse under her jaw, loving the way her nails dig deeper into my shoulders.

"Never," she says.

I slide my finger inside and press my thumb to her clit, rubbing slow circles. "That's a fucking tragedy."

With increasing pressure, I pump my finger into her snug hole, massaging her clit. Her back arches, offering her tits right at mouth level. They're fucking perfect—full, firm, and puckered quite nicely. I suck hard and flick my tongue over one little peak. Bella tries to squeeze her legs together, but I bear down, leaning my weight against her to keep her open, making her take every sensation I can give her. It's a matter of my pride now. I'll make this woman come if it kills me.

"Shit," she hisses. "Right there. Harder."

"You want more?" I mumble between her breasts, turning my attention to the other side.

"Yes."

I push a second finger inside. Wet, sloppy noises accentuate every stroke into her tight pussy. Her legs shake.

"Like that?" Faster, my thumb moves over her swollen clit. I can feel her muscles convulse around my fingers. "Hmm? You want to come, baby?"

She whimpers something unintelligible and I know she's close. I suck on her nipple, letting my teeth drag. Her nails scratch down my ribs and all I can think about is what she'll taste like when I'm eating her dripping pussy, making her come on my face.

"Get there, Bella." I fuck her almost to the point of brutality, but I find she likes the pain. Her body shudders with the building tension. "I want to taste you, lick every fucking drop from your delicious little cunt."

"Fuck, Edward." Her legs give out and I'm holding her against the wall as she writhes on my hand. Her pussy clamps down on my fingers, trying to pull out every spasm of her orgasm.

Sweat shines over her forehead, where wet strands of hair cling there. I watch her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth fall open. She's the perfect image of hunger and ecstasy. Fucking gorgeous.

My thumb swipes over her clit and she constricts, pushing at my hand. "No more," she pants. "Too sensitive."

"Not done," I tell her. Trailing lips and tongue down her stomach, I sink to my knees and spread her thighs, lifting one leg over my shoulder.

"This is mine," I state before my tongue licks through her drenched slit. Bella's muscles tense and her hands grab my head, shoving my face at her cunt as I grip her ass.

Eating her out, sucking on her clit and stabbing my tongue inside, I'm already high. Her scent coats me, her taste fills me, and I'm addicted. She's more potent than heroin. She's got me so goddamn hard I can almost feel the blood being siphoned from my extremities with the urgency to get to my cock, and then drive it into her.

But I want her to come first. One more before I lose my shit and finally slake this unbearable tension I've let build for too long. I might have been gentler, kinder, if I'd just taken her for a quick ride before lunch. But then I wouldn't be here, having this woman grind against my mouth.

"Don't stop," she says, as if I'm even doing half the work. She's determined to fuck me blind. "I'm almost there. Don't fucking stop."

My tongue lashes at her clit, flicking the little nub. A guttural, strained cry bursts from deep in her chest as Bella comes on my lips. That's it. I'm going to claw out of my skin if I don't get inside her.

Allowing no time for recovery, I pick her up and drop her on the center of the bed. As I unfasten my jeans and drop my gun to the nightstand, Bella doesn't even look at it. She gets on her knees and crawls over, reaching for my cock.

"Let me," she says, stroking my shaft. "I want to."

"Baby, if I don't get you under me now, you won't be able to swallow for a week."

Her eyebrows rise. I'm not kidding. I'd hold her face like a receiver protecting a goddamn football and skull-fuck her. Not really appropriate first-not-date behavior.

Kicking out of my jeans, I ease her down to the bed and cover her body with mine. Her legs open and wrap around my hips as I settle on my forearms.

"I'm sorry," she says. Bella runs her hand down my back. I could fuck this woman senseless or kill a lion with my bare hands at this moment, but her light touch settles me like a tranquilizer.

"For what?" I kiss along her neck, her shoulder.

"Lying. Pretending."

"Every one of us is a mess," I say. My eyes meet hers and I see further than she's allowed since I showed up on her doorstep with my gun drawn. "You have a right to guard yourself. I want to be the one you let in."

"I don't want to hurt you," she says with a tone of sadness.

"So don't." I'm not that fragile. Psycho ex-boyfriends make good target practice, as far as I'm concerned. "You're not too much trouble for me, if that's what you think."

"You would be so easy to love." Bella brushes her fingers over my forehead and down my jaw. My eyes close to her touch and something inside me shatters.

"You'd be the first."

Our lips meet and I guide myself inside her.

That daunting, transformative word lingers at the forefront of my mind.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Beta: Hadley Hemingway**.

* * *

**Chapter 11: That time I tried coke**

**I'm a goddamn space man.**

The music is loud, the room reeks of smoke, and the front of my shirt is wet. I don't remember why or how I came to be sprawled out on this leather couch. People crowd the space, their forms only blurs of color. Red, black, flashes of bare skin. The room writhes together, pulsating. Everything vibrates and throbs.

My head falls to my shoulder. Beside me, I see two women as mouths and arms and naked breasts as they slither over each other.

Something heavy drops on my foot. I force my head forward to stare at the floor, where the empty glass rests next to my boot. There was a drink in there, and now it's on me. I stink of whisky.

My pants are open, the button undone and fly lowered. On the glass table in front of me, another woman lies with her head back, sucking off some sweaty bastard in a suit, his tie loose around his neck. Her legs are spread wide, knees bent. I'm watching her pussy clench as he goes to work on her throat.

Below her, three lines of white powder are neatly cut. My gums tingle. My nerves are millions of tiny ants skittering across my body. I lean forward, grabbing and spreading her knees. With the tip of my tongue I gather one line then coat her cunt, over her clit, and return to suck every grain from her pink hole.

I'm a goddamn space man. I'm the Sultan of Brunei. I'm Aladdin on a ten ton atomic missile.

Then my face snaps to the side and I'm bleeding on the carpet. A tooth swims in the blood filling my mouth.

"Get the fuck up!" He doesn't wait for me to find my legs. "Get up," he orders as his boot lands against my ribs. "You dumb fucking bastard."I'm ripped from the floor by my collar. "The fuck is wrong with you?" My reflection slugs me again, breaking my nose. The crack is deafening inside my head. "You have a death wish?"

Nonsense and blood spills from my mouth and I spit the tooth out. It lands on the woman's stomach. She screams. There's a lot of screaming.

Anthony grabs my face. His thumb presses in the space that holds only the severed, exposed nerve my tooth left behind. "You pull this shit again," my brother says, "I'll put a bullet in your head."

Bella drags her nails down my back.

I'm John Kennedy. I'm Mick Jagger. I'm a fucking god to this woman. And she's better than coke.

Gripping the headboard, I plunge inside. Deeper. Harder. Every stroke like mainlining battery acid. Fucking lethal and perfect. The muscles in my back flex and my biceps tense. Bella sinks into the bed with every thrust. Our bodies meet, sweat dripping between us, and we're two ships colliding on a tumultuous sea.

A lamp crashes to the floor from the nightstand. Framed pictures fall off the walls. Little statues of Green Army Men topple, slain by the force of what this woman does to me, what she has made of me.

I've killed dozens. Their faces fade with every passing year. But this woman, the violence in her nails and the desperation in her moans, has reversed a millennia of evolution to leave me as nothing but a rutting animal.

Her back arches and her neck strains, presenting a target for my teeth. I bite, mad with hunger. Bella screams. It only makes me fuck her harder.

"Do it, baby. Give me another one."

"Fuck," she cries out. "Edward. God. I—uh—"

Her pussy clenches around my cock, squeezing me, pulling on every rigid inch.

Any man who has ever touched her should have his dick revoked. She comes on command.

"No more," she whimpers. "I can't."

I slow my assault, lowering my lips to her breasts and licking over both nipples. She jerks and twitches below me. Her body is so sensitive, so responsive to my touch. Every surface of her is an exposed nerve.

"Can't," I ask, "or don't want to?"

Bella grabs my ass and tugs me inside, holding me deep. "Want to," she pants. "Don't stop. Too good."

"Bend over, baby." Looking down at her wild hair, flushed face, and lusty eyes, I imagine a dozen ways to ruin her. "I want to ride you."

She gets on her hands and knees as I settle behind her. As my lips travel down her back, tasting the salt I pulled from her pores, I brush her hair over her shoulder. Down her spine, my tongue slides and licks at the dimples over her ass. With both hands I spread her cheeks to taste the warm, savory flavor of her wetness dripping from her pussy.

"I could eat you for hours," I groan.

Bella pushes against my mouth, sliding up and down my face. "Inside me," she begs. "Don't leave me empty."

I don't leave her wanting. Slow and easy, my cock disappears inside her snug channel. A perfect fit. I groan as her walls stretch to take me in. I lose more of myself the farther I sink into her.

"Stay with me," Bella urges. Her hand reaches back and touches my thigh. Her eyes find mine over her shoulder. "Be here. With me."

"I am."

With one hand, I take her hip and hold tight. With the other, I press on the small of her back until she bends, arching for me with her shoulders flat to the bed.

"Fucking beautiful."

It's too much to resist, the coil is too tight, and I lose any desire for being gentle. Not when her body begs for a man like cracked desert earth begs for rain. I impale her on my cock with short, fierce, rapid stabs. The slick, soft texture of her cunt envelopes me, captivates me.

Another tower of questionable art lies in ruin on the floor while my pelvis smacks against her ass. It's remarkable how perfectly she fits me. How pliant. But I can't fuck her hard enough. I can't get deep enough or siphon enough pleasure to sate me. I'm starving for her, even as she gives everything, and I take more.

My hands splay on the bed beside her shoulders and my full weight presses her to the mattress until she flattens beneath me. All my energy, every ounce of strength I have left, is dedicated to drilling into her. Bella comes again, clawing at the sheets.

"You have to come," she cries. "Come inside me, damn it."

The release is explosive. Embedded to the hilt, I come so hard my vision goes black and I lose feeling in my legs. She takes every drop and her greedy little pussy milks me dry while my chest heaves against her back. Then I realize I'm crushing her.

I move to free her, but she protests, squeezing my dick like a trap. Instead, I roll us over to let her lie on top and I wrap my arms around her. Maybe too tight, but it's all I can do to keep from panicking.

"You're coming with me," I tell her. This isn't a discussion. I won't tolerate an argument. "Tomorrow morning we'll pack up and leave. We'll disappear, and I'll show you how open and endless the world can be."

Bella pries her body from mine, only enough to find a place beside me, in my arms, with her head on my chest.

"Be mine," I say. "And I promise you'll never feel more free."


End file.
